


Symphonic

by FaeriexQueen



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Burns, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 10:06:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19196671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeriexQueen/pseuds/FaeriexQueen
Summary: No matter how hard he tried, or how much he played, Allen could never drown out the memories completely.





	Symphonic

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution for Poker Pair Week 2019, Day 4. I chose the theme “Music” for this one, and lately have been inspired a lot by cello pieces - that, and the most recent chapter of DGM delving into Allen’s backstory. This isn’t canon, but there are some vague implications of past abuse ahead.

The crowd lingered that night.  
  
It was overwhelming – the noise, the heat, the smell.  The concert hall, as large as it was, felt stifling.  It was a miraculous realization given that the hall seated well over two thousand people – an audience size that most musicians could only  _dream_  of performing for.  To complain about anything involving such an opportunity was a privilege above all else, and one that Allen knew he needed to be grateful for.   _Was_  grateful for.  
  
 _‘Smile.’_  
  
Most of the concert attendees had filled out into the reception area just outside of the main hall after the musical performance Allen had given.  It was there that drinks were still being served and socialites were mingling.  Women wore glistening necklaces that sparkled like starlight, and men were well-dressed from head-to-toe.  They were adorned in what truly could be called  _finery_ , as their jewelry and clothing were a clear indicator of status.   Even the most understated pieces were a scream above others, with the same, unanimous proclamation that everyone else carried with them that night:  _I am someone._  
  
It only made Allen feel a  _little_  out of place.  
  
 _‘Smile,’_  He reminded himself for the second time that night, as a woman complimented him on his performance.  Her words came out in a gush as she clung to her husband’s arm, though occasionally her eyes would flicker away to another gentleman nearby.  It was a peculiar observation; Allen was almost entirely distracted by it.  However, he forced himself to remain present as he nodded politely.  
  
“Thank you,” Allen said, words both a bit sheepish and humble.  “I’m glad to hear you both enjoyed it.”  
  
“We look forward to seeing you perform here again,” The woman went on.  Her words were heavily honeyed, but there was just enough of an excitable tremor to make the compliment sound genuine.    
  
Allen only managed another small, nod.  The effort put into the words could only do so much, and when the couple moved on, Allen could only exhale in relief.  Sometimes, interacting with the crowd was exhausting – even if they  _were_  patrons. It was tiring.  More so than it probably should have been.  
  
Allen glanced around.  The reception hall was just as grand as the concert hall, with glittering chandeliers and tall windows.  Again, it was a dream venue – one that only a few years ago Allen would have never thought he’d be able to perform in.  Networking, inner circles – Allen didn’t exactly have the means to work his way up in that fashion, and relying on talent alone was a long shot.  There were plenty of talented musicians who worked tirelessly, day and night, only to be left with nothing but notes and a few chords.  
  
Lucky.  Allen had just gotten lucky.  
  
A few more people stopped by to congratulate Allen, once more dividing his attention.  One man made a move to shake his hand, which caused Allen to pause.  However, he caught himself before the hesitation became noticeable, and did so.  As Allen shook the man’s hand, he fought a wince; under his glove, he felt a sting.  
  
More time passed, and again, Allen looked around.  With the crowd having thinned out already, Allen was able to look around the hall to see who remained.  His silver eyes skimmed the space, gaze quick and peering.  However, he only saw strangers with painted faces and intricate masks.  No one that Allen knew.  
  
Again, there was sting at Allen’s fingertips.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
By the time Allen had managed to slip away, it was nearly midnight.  The concert hall was empty, and its silence resonated like an endless void of nothing.  A void of hollow, soundless nothingness.  
  
 _“You’ll always be nothing, Red Arm.”_  
  
The words filled the silence – heavy, and seeping from the recess of Allen’s memory.  They echoed in his ears, like a broken melody that threatened to spiral into an endless cacophony.  Nothing.  
  
Nothing.  Nothing.  _Nothing._  
  
They rang dully in his ears, and Allen automatically tuned them out.  He always did; he had taught himself well to do so from a young age.  The taunting.  The cruel nickname.  Allen had always been reduced to a pitiful identity, one that was easily scorned at if not forgotten.    
  
The years had passed, and he had worked to bury it.  To bury it all so deeply – but even a scholarship to a music academy, and an unprecedented chance at a music career would never quite be enough to make that a reality.  Allen would never be able to forget completely.  
  
Allen walked onto the stage of the concert hall, as he carried his instrument of choice with him: a cello.  It was the one instrument he had gravitated toward the most, even more so than the piano, which had more or less been Allen’s first exposure to music.    
  
The stage lights were on, still dim and casting long shadows across the seats, blending the vacant hall and aisles into darkness.  The atmosphere might have been eerie to some; the hall was vast, and the silence unsettling. But, Allen only found it comforting. Safe.  
  
Stopping at the center of the stage, Allen sat down at the single seat still remaining.  He propped the fingerboard against his shoulder, as his right hand took the bow.  His left fingers remained on the strings along the fingerboard, still gloved and motionless.  
  
One.  Two.  Three seconds passed.  Allen took a breath.  
  
He moved the bow, just as his fingers began to play the chords.  The tempo was steady, and even a bit slow – the beginning chords of Bach’s _Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major_.  It was something of a classic, and a piece that Allen had always found comfort in.  He didn’t know why.  But he felt it when he played the chords, and when the strings’ notes resonated in his ears.  
  
It helped to drown out the memories, too.  
  
 _“Red Arm.”_  
  
Drown them out.  That’s what the chords did – it helped to wash the words away, and to wash the pain.  The hurt. The torment.  That was what had always drawn Allen to music; it brought him relief, when nothing else could.  
  
 _“You’re worthless, pathetic-“_  
  
Louder.  Allen played louder, as he could feel the tension bundle into his shoulders. There was a slight increase in the tempo as he continued, with the bow striking hard against the chords.  Again, Allen could feel a sting – particularly on his left hand’s finger tips, just as they pressed down onto the chords, strings cutting down and against the gloved tips.  
  
Nothing.  Allen wasn’t _nothing_ -  
  
 _“You’ll never get anywhere.  You’ll never-“  
  
_ Ignore them.  Allen had ignored them again, and again, and he wasn’t going to let them get to him now.  Not when he had worked so hard, and seized every opportunity he could to make an identity for himself.  And to crawl out of that damned _hole_ -  
  
 _“You’re nothing, Red Arm.”_  
  
A sharp pain seared through Allen’s fingertips, causing him to cut his playing abruptly.  He grimaced, jaw tightening as his eyes clamped shut.  Allen exhaled, more breathless than he realized as a few beads of sweat trickled down his face.  There was a dampness at his fingertips, something warm and sticky as the glove’s fabric pressed against his skin.  
  
Allen pulled his fingertips back from the strings, and looked at them.  On the tips, there were splotches of red.  
  
Allen bit back and curse, as he tugged at the fabric of the gloves.  There was an uncomfortable pull near where the tips were, causing Allen to cease pulling the gloves off anymore.  He exhaled, as he rested fingerboard of the cello against his shoulder, and continued to catch his breath.  
  
 _‘Nothing…’_  
  
“You’re still here?”  
  
The words were jarring to Allen’s ears, having seemingly come out of nowhere.  He turned, eyes initially alert and gilded like polished stones; however, Allen simultaneously recognized the voice, causing his shoulders to relax, and his eyes soon caught sight of the other individual at the left side of the stage.  
  
 _Tyki._  
  
Allen looked forward again, as his fingers gently rested against the strings of the cello.  “It’s a bit creepy the way you’re just standing there,” Allen said, without sparing Tyki a second glance.  “How long have you been watching?”  
  
Tyki laughed, voice low and tickled with amusement.   He walked over to where Allen was, before leaning against him from behind, arms slouching over Allen’s shoulders. “Only all night,” Tyki pointed out, as he continued to keep his arms loosely wrapped around Allen.  “You totally killed it out there.  I couldn’t even think straight after your performance.”  
  
The words spilled into Allen’s ears like melted chocolate, sweet and velvety.  However, the charms didn’t quite sway him into relaxation, and a nip of a comment fell from his lips.  “You can’t think straight after a lot of things,” Allen said, as he readjusted the bow. His focus was cracked, as he felt Tyki’s touch on his shoulders.  “I didn’t see you at the reception.”  
  
“You know how my family is,” Tyki said, as he brushed the side of his face against Allen’s silvery-white hair.  “It’s hard to get away from them, and you looked overwhelmed enough as it was with all those people fluttering around you.”  
  
“Well, aren’t you thoughtful?” Allen spoke, though any bite that had been playfully clinging his tone had now diminished. Again, Allen found it hard to keep his mind clear – especially given how close Tyki’s face was, still pressed into his hair and breath on his cheek.  Faintly, Allen caught a blended scent of cedarwood and nicotine.  
  
Tyki moved a bit, as his amber irises shifted over to the cello.  It was only a second before his attention locked onto Allen’s gloved hand, where Tyki then caught a glimpse of red.    
  
Carefully, Tyki reached over to place his hand over Allen’s left one, where he pulled it up from the fingerboard of the cello.   
  
Allen immediately tensed a bit in response – he knew Tyki was looking at the bloodied fingertips.  
  
Tyki exhaled, as he gingerly held Allen’s hand. “You should take it easy. Practice makes perfect, but only if your fingers are in tact.”  
  
Allen frowned, and in something of an impulsive reaction he removed his hand from Tyki’s grasp.  His hand clasped, balling into a fist – an action that Allen immediately regretted, as a sharp pain danced from the tips of his fingers and into the nerves of his hand.  He grimaced, teeth clenching and eyes shutting tight.  
  
Tyki didn’t say anything.  His expression remained neutral, though his eyes glinted with something that distantly echoed concern.    
  
It was only a moment or so before Tyki again took Allen’s hand, once more keeping his touch gentle.  There was a slight flinch from Allen, prompting Tyki to be even more cautionary that he normally would.    
  
Gingerly, Tyki pulled Allen’s fingers apart, releasing them so they were no longer balled into a fist.  Allen released a somewhat shallow breath, as the sting remained; the fabric of the gloves were clinging to the tips of his fingers unpleasantly, causing a painful, grimy feeling to blossom in his hand.  
  
Tyki took his other hand, and held Allen’s wrist.  He then began to tug the glove off of Allen’s hand, slow enough so that Tyki could feel for whenever there would be a snag or resistance.  There was a small pull as he made his way to the fingertips, and Tyki’s eyes flashed to Allen’s briefly.    
  
When Allen didn’t say anything, Tyki pulled the glove off.  
  
Allen winced, but remained silent.  He knew deep down it was best to take the glove off, but it didn’t make it any easier; his eyes naturally avoided looking at his hand, though in his peripheral vision he could see the dark, red scar tissue and keloids that stretched across his hand, his wrist – even up his arm.  The sleeve of Allen’s button-down shirt covered it, but Allen knew it was there. It was always there.  
  
 _“Red Arm.”_  
  
Tyki looked at the fingertips.  He could see where they had been cut into, the burnt scar tissue too sensitive to have withstood the friction of the cello strings. He rubbed his own fingers over Allen’s, before bringing Allen’s scarred hand to his lips.    
  
Tyki’s kiss lingered, before he finally spoke. “Sometimes I think you’re rough with it on purpose,” He noted, words low.  “Kind of a shame.  I like your hands.”  
  
Allen laughed, sound dry and hollow. “You’d be one of the few,” Allen pointed out, and small smile on his face.  “People hated me for having it before.”  
  
A small scoff escaped Tyki.  “And look at where you are now,” He said.  “Clearly they didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.”  
  
Allen went quiet at this, and his eyes looked off to the side.  The smile had faded, with only an echo of it remaining, and his eyes glinted like silver-tinged lilacs.  
  
Noticing Allen’s silence, Tyki stood.  He was still holding Allen’s hand, and gently pulled him.  “Come on,” Tyki said.  “Let’s clean it.”  
  
Allen almost didn’t move, still seated while holding the cello.  However, Tyki wasn’t going, nor was he releasing his hold on Allen’s hand.  As gentle as Tyki was being, Allen knew the grip was an unyielding one – Tyki wouldn’t leave without him.  
  
 _“You’ll never…”_  
  
Allen exhaled, and stood as well.  He nodded.  “Okay.”  
  
Tyki didn’t say anything, and waited for Allen to get anything he needed and put the cello away.  It only took a few moments, and soon Allen was ready to leave.  
  
They both left the stage after that, the lights remaining dim and the shadows dark.   
  
 The rest of the night, the concert hall was silent.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This came out more hurt/comfort and far softer than I planned, but overall, I think I’m happy with how it turned out. I hope you all enjoyed it as well.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
